Repotting

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Lonely Vietnamese widow rediscovers arousal.
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The coolness of the morning air only accentuated the warmth of the sun. I was sitting on the steps outside my house when I identified the unsettled strange mood I was in. Well not so much identified as recognised that I was indeed in a strange mood. It was spring and with the lengthening days and rising temperatures the buds on the ash had turned from black to green. I was repotting some plants. On the to do list that I made the night before plant repotting was top.

It was something to do with my dream, of that I was sure. Remnants of the dream swirled in my head always just out of reach, like a butterfly every time I thought I had it it fluttered away out of reach. The thing was – it was a good dream but good in a way I couldn’t quite place. My late husband had featured of that I was sure but that wasn’t what made the dream good. Why would it? He’d ruined my life and left me a widow in a strange country. We’d came to London from Vietnam in the seventies. We’d been married less than a year when we arrived. I was just shy of eighteen he was a “crazy” 21 year old. Well he thought he was “crazy”, he was actually a silly boy continuously seeking attention and entirely unable to relax. No, it certainly wasn’t his presence that made the dream interesting. We’d been somewhere interesting and something dangerous was happening and I had a feeling that I was undressed.

As is the way with dreams the best ones are interrupted. At the end of my small garden runs a path, a proper paved path, and the far side of the path is bordered by a hedge. The buzz of a tool, I suppose a hedge cutter, woke me this morning. It didn’t last long, long enough to wake me but not much longer. As I sat in the sunshine musing over my dream, flip flops, grey tracky bottoms and a loose sleeveless shirt on, soil all over the place, the council van returned and deposited a man with a hedgecutter, a can of fuel and a brush. A two meter stretch of the hedge testimony to his earlier effort.

I think if someone who knew me were to describe me they would say I was quiet. Well I am I suppose. This is due to a number of reasons. All my family were very loud, as was my husband. I’m not competitive. For a long time my English was practically non-existent. And I am an oriental woman, demure. I say this because a powertool at the end of my garden, shattering the peace of my morning, would usually turn me apoplectic but this morning I watched with some degree of fascination as the aural onslaught unravelled. The man was black, similar age to me, late forties and the thought occurred that you could theoretically make about three of me from him. He’d walked the twenty metres length of the hedge, patting here, peering in there. There was something about his movement, an ease, unhurried, purposeful and with fluidity that had me hypnotised. It was about the time that he started the machine and began his first swathe of the hedge that it gelled in my head - I was aroused. There was a peculiar ache in my breast and a dull itch in my crotch, my teeth were unconsciously gritting. The air slowly filled with a heady mixture of scents, freshly cut hedge, petrol fumes and man. My nipples were hard and pointing through my linen shirt. As I shifted slightly on the step I could feel moisture between my legs.

For me arousal was a very rare thing. I’d slept with but one man. My late husband. He was keen enough but always in a hurry. He was a chef, always against the clock. He was also a gambler and a drinker and as it transpired later a philanderer. As a young woman I would masturbate and even into the early part of our marriage I would play with myself once he’d fallen into a drunken slumber following a fast and furious fuck. As the quality of the sex didn’t improve and the frequency decreased I just became less and less interested. Once he died in a fight ten years ago and all the confusion and sadness and loneliness took over sex was something that just evaporated for me.

I shifted my legs as a light breeze got up catching the wetness in my crotch, cooling me in a sublime way. My plant repotting was going slowly. I was going to speak with the man of that I was sure but first I must shower. The shower made things worse. Parts of the dream returned – a handsome Turkish man who had been in my English classes, he was holding me down, my husband was nearby but out of sight. We were naked, he was sucking my tits. One hand squeezed my almost non existent breasts, boyish aside from the large dark brown nipples, the other moved between my lips. Dressing in front of my full length mirror, I noticed that I was flushed, there was a colour to my cheeks that wasn’t there because of the shower.

I remembered the string of lemons I’d bought the day before and the jugs of lemonade I’d learnt to make the summer previous. It was at the third lemon that I noticed the noise had ceased. The two halves of the lemon rolled off the surface. I dashed to the front door. He was stood squinting at me in the now midday sun at the bottom of garden. He had his brush in his hand and was sweeping up the cuttings. “Hi,” I burst out. “Hi there, it’s a gorgeous day.” He smiled and before I could even think I said: “You look like you could do with a drink.” There was an uncomfortable silence, perhaps he’d sensed that I hadn’t really thought this through. “I was just making some lemonade, how does that sound,” I said and again there was something not quite me about the tone. Still no reply. “You finish up your sweeping and I’ll finish off the lemonade, give me a knock.” With that I disappeared back into my house. I stood in the kitchen wondering if what had just happened had really happened.

I felt foolish and desperate. I felt out of control and what with my Tai Chi and my careful dieting and studying being out of control was very much not me. I dipped a spoon in the lemonade to taste it, the bitterness made me screw my face but it was soon replaced by a welcome sweetness.

“Hello little lady?” He was at the door.

“Come in come in,” I shrilled back.

“I’ll leave my boots outside, my I use your bathroom please?”

He was now stood before me. The top of my head barely came up to his chest, I felt like a little girl.

“You’re a middle aged widow in serious need,” I reminded myself before saying: “Of course, of course, right at the top of the stairs.”

His smell was almost eye watering. He was wearing dungarees over a polo shirt, both council logoed and coloured.

I was giddy with excitement. I placed the jug on the coffee table with two glasses and straightened the cushions on the sofa.

“This is very kind of you, I’m George by the way, thank you very much, I was spitting feathers and I haven’t had proper home made lemonade since I was a boy, thank you.”

“Ann, it’s no bother, that looks like thirsty work… That hedge was needing some attention.” I blushed. My little stammer and the clumsyness must have given me away.

“Ann I reckon that hedge isn’t all that’s needing a little attention’ It’s a while since I’ve seen that look but I think I recognise it.” He took a long drink of his lemonade. “Damn that’s good,” he gasped. I moved over, kneeling on the sofa next to him and I ran a hand from the top of his head down over his shoulders and down his back. I ran my other hand down over his face and down his chest to his stomach. He was damp with sweat but everything was so hard and solid feeling. He was just so big. His odour filled my nose and my throat, I could almost feel it in my eyes. He reached an arm round my waist and pulled me round so that was sitting on his lap then he kissed me. It felt like he could have almost swallowed my whole head, his huge wet lips and his big nose breating on me. I could hardly breath. One of his hands covered most of my back. He was pulling me too him. I’d pulled his shirt up and was feeling his chest. Moving back from me, in a couple of easy movements he had his shirt off and I was kissing his shoulders and neck. He turned and laid me on the sofa pushing my dress up and planting a wet kiss on my belly button before licking down to the top of my panties. Pulling aside my panties he proceded to eat me and that was how it felt. Every part of my pussy was being licked and kissed and poked at the same time. One of my legs was over his shoulder the other over the back of the sofa, both hands were either on his head or shoulders. Abruptly he focused intently on my clitty and I could feel my first orgasm in over ten years fast approaching. Just as the increasingly urgent pleasure feelings began to flow into one continuous one he slowly but surely inserted his fat middle finger all that way up me. I bucked and bucked and juddered as wave after wave of glorious pleasure exploded. Slowly he sat up. I just lay legs akimbo eyes closed.

“Do you feel attended too now Ann?” He semi laughed.

“Oh yes indeed I do,” I semi laughed too. “Would you stand up please.”

His dungarees had slipped down from his shoulder and were hanging on his hard on. I reached up and unhooked them from his cock so they dropped to the floor. His shorts I slowly lowered too revealing a cock that would have made about ten of my late husband’s. It was the size of a large courgette, almost the size of my forearm, it took both my hands to fit around it. I kissed it and licked it and I tried to suck it but I couldn’t get more than the head in my mouth. Meantime he was fingering me with first one then two of his fingers. I was a little sore but in a delicious way. He took up a kneeling posiion on the floor, giving my pussy another wet licking.

“This may hurt to begin with but just relax and it won’t last.” He tapped his big black and purple willy along the length of my lips before nuzzling its head right at my entrance. From my angle it looked inconceivable, it certainly felt inconceivable, it may as well have been a bollard. Gradually he increased the pressure and gradually the pain in the muscle of my entrance built till it got quite sore. I let out a little grunt of discomfort.

“Just relax baby, just relax,” he said, not looking down at me but at his ever so slowly disappearing cock. Sure enough as I felt the head of his cock bury further in me the pain eased. I could see that almost half of his cock was in me and I’d never felt so full nor thought I could ever be so full. Slowly he withdrew and I felt like I was being turned inside out. Just as the feeling of my insides being pulled out began to get uncomfortable he slowly sunk back into me this time a little further than before. The pain had now subsided and it was being replaced by a want. With two more strokes and one last thrust he was fully in me and he lent forward and kissed me fully on the lips. What with that big cock in me and those big lips snogging me I felt the first flutterings of another orgasm and sure enough with one long slow stroke I gave a little shriek as a small but intense orgasm showered through me. It was my first vaginal orgasm.

“Atta girl,” he murmered, “someone as beautiful as you should not go without attention. I am the luckiest guy, What… naaa whatever.” And he was looking right into my eyes and he looked sincere. He also looked quite outrageously handsome and massive in equal measure.

It transpired that George and I had more in common than we’d perhaps thought. A foolish youthful dalliance and his God fearing wife had left him with their daughter. He’d rarely seen them since. He lived a very simple and quite lonely existence. He’d came over from Trinidad as a young man and never really felt at home. The night after we first met he took me to a Portuguese restaurant where we had a wonderful meal and some wine. We went back to his where we enjoyed ourselves again. We see each other three times a week and he keeps hounding me to move in with him in his lovely ex-council flat with views right over London. We enjoy ourselves every time we meet though perhaps not quite so elaborately as the first. I’m still playing hard to get. Well, when I think of the first time…

That first time I just remember clinging to the top of the sofa, my legs as wide as they could go, trying to ignore the growing muscular pain in them as he pounded in and out of me – I just felt so open. Like a door that had been shut and was now open, it was wonderful. Just that feeling as he drew out of me just to come pushing all the way back in again. My eyes were closed and I was just focusing on this crashing energy between my legs, this fabulous friction contrasting with the slipperiness. I came about five times building to the biggest one which before it was anywhere near upon me I knew I was going to struggle with. I nearly passed out and as it subsided I realised that my cheeks were wet with tears. He stopped then and just held me, fully inside me, crushing me into him and him into me. I kissed his cheeks and his eyes and stroked his head. Finally he pulled out from me to leave me feeling horribly empty. He turned me round so my bum was in the air and I was over the back of the sofa. The coldness on my exposed pussy was very odd but I knew it wouldn’t last. Sure enough this time he sunk even further in than he’d been before. I knew this was his turn, he closed my legs together and, holding the back of the sofa stood on the seat. It wasn’t long before I could hear his breathing changing and some “Oh Gods” issued forth. He got faster and faster, I could feel his saliva on my back and then with three or four desperate thrusts he came. Hot, hot spunk. We held that position till it was no longer comfortable then we sunk down lying full length on the sofa, him still fully inside me. We lay like that for what seamed like hours but was infact about five minutes. Finally, slowly he got up and got dressed and went back to his hedge.

I never got my plants repotted that day. But George helped me the following weekend.

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